Chapter Sixteen

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THREE HORRIBLE ETERNAL DAYS.

Fifty-seven travel agencies.

Thirty-two hotels.

Twenty-three tour companies.

Eighteen cruise liners.

Eleven airlines.

Seven helicopter charters.

And five airports.

All with the exact same phone script: “Hello, I’m enquiring about a tour/flight/cruise/adventure that includes the destination Goddess Isles. It’s located an hour or so helicopter flight from Jakarta.”

“Hello, ma’am. I will see if we have such a tour/flight/cruise/adventure that includes Goddess Isles, please hold.”

A requisite hold period where my heart would rabbit and stupid, idiotic hope would rise. Only for disappointment to crush me deeper and deeper into despair as they returned. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. We do not have anything suitable.”

“Have you heard of Goddess Isles?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Do you know of the proprietor, Sullivan Sinclair? He’s an American who has chosen Java as his home.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Can you suggest someone who might be able to charter/guide/find Goddess Isles?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Do you have anyone else I can call? A sister agency/airline/company?”

“No, ma’am. Thank you for your call, ma’am. Good day.”

Argh!!!!

I dug my elbows into the desk and dropped my face into my palms.

Sully!

I swear if I wasn’t so fucking worried about him, I would be fuming wild!

How dare he agree to temporary?

How dare he fall in love with me?

How dare he pretend to trust me, all while knowing that I was powerless to return to him!

Three days!

Three fucking days!

Anything could’ve happened.

He could be dead and in pieces on the ocean floor by now. He could be wounded and dying without me by his side. He could be held prisoner by his brother.

Or...

And this was the worst part.

The sickening nerves and self-pity that kept me up at night, ensuring I hadn’t rested properly since sleeping in Sully’s arms with Nirvana splashing outside his bedroom.

He could have killed Drake.

He could’ve won the war.

He could be back to drugging goddesses and entertaining his smarmy guests.

He could have returned to his world...without me.

He could look at his credit card statement and see I’d spent an exorbitant sum on three nights in a five-star hotel instead of flying home like his staff had told me.

He could be laughing at me because I’d chosen to stay.

He could be pitying me because I couldn’t damn well fly away without ensuring he was okay.

Even a cell phone number would be fine.

An email.

A PO Box, for God’s sake.

Anything so I could contact him and find out if he was still alive.

I needed to hear his voice.

I needed to hug him and convince myself that the nightmares that found me when I couldn’t stay awake weren’t real.

That the images of him shot and injured weren’t real.

That the fears of him bleeding out and dying on his beach weren’t real.

That the terrors of Skittles and Pika being killed and plucked and roasted on a skewer weren’t real!

Dammit!

I stood in a rush, and the chair that I’d sat on for the past seventy-two hours and called every tourism and travel firm I could find in Indonesia, shot backward on its wheels.

I’d exhausted my online searches.

I’d spoken to every single person who could possibly, maybe, slimly help me.

I’d even rang two police stations, enquiring if they knew of Sully Sinclair.

And I’d run into dead end after dead end.

I was in a maze with no way out. No clues. No hope.

Sully was hidden, and no matter how hard I tried...he remained unreachable.

Fine!

Sweeping from the office space, I ran to the bathroom. I was done being a hermit in my hotel room. I’d shower, withdraw some cash, and swap online hunting for physical.

I would door knock every damn backpacker, dive bar, and local transport.

I would bribe every bus, taxi, and motorbike driver if they’d ever heard of Goddess Isles. I would march into every pet store and request if they’d made bulk sales to an island called Serigala. I’d talk to veterinary clinics for medicine deliveries. I’d track down supermarkets and wholesalers about large quantities of goods sent to an island in the middle of nowhere.

I would do whatever it damn well took to find him.

I’d chosen to be loyal.

I’d chosen him as my future.

No way was I walking away just because he’d sent me away and slammed the door in my face.

It’s not permanent, Sully.

I’ll find a way...you’ll see.

And then, you and me? We’re having a serious chat about commitment.

* * * * *

“Sorry, ma’am. We don’t fly there.”

“Sorry, ma’am. We don’t sail there.”

“Sorry, ma’am. There is no island by that name.”

“Sorry, ma’am. We have never heard of Sullivan Sinclair or Goddess Isles.”

“Sorry, ma’am. We did not make bulk pet food deliveries to a place called Serigala.”

“Sorry, ma’am. We do not have vets who treat rescue animals in the Javanese Sea.”

“Sorry, ma’am. We do not have records of sending non-perishable food to Sullivan Sinclair.”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“Sorry.”

Sorry!

Don’t tell me fucking sorry.

Tell me something!

Exhausted tears ran down my face as I stumbled from the tenth market that dealt in spices and sweets. I’d had to return to ATMs four times to withdraw money for bribes. I’d wafted hundred-dollar bills beneath the noses of tour operators, greengrocers, and vets.

They all took the money.

Yet they gave nothing in return.

They either all lied spectacularly or...Sully had locked down his name, businesses, and address with military precision.

What am I going to do?

I didn’t even know where I was.

I’d caught so many taxis, zipping north, south, east, and west, that I had no idea how to get back. I couldn’t remember the name of the hotel I’d been staying at. I had no belongings apart from the small bag I’d bought to keep my cash and passport inside and the pair of white sandals I’d grabbed from a local stall.

I was homeless and frazzled, running on worry and adrenaline.

I couldn’t keep up this level of franticness. But I also couldn’t stop because if Sully was hurt...

He can’t be hurt.

I’d rather he be a bastard who turned his back on me than hurt.

A bastard, I could reason with. I could convince him that what we had was special and worth fighting for. A dead man, I could not.

God, please, Sully!

The sun slowly sank behind skyscrapers and shacks, painting the sky crimson and tangerine. The humidity was different here. Stickier and polluted. My hair was limp and stuck to my shoulders. My feet throbbed from walking so much. And my body needed liquid and nourishment.

Plodding onward, stores shut for the day and workers conversed in happy Indonesian. A man bumped into me as he skipped from a convenience store, his hand holding a dewy, icy cola.

My mouth instantly craved wetness.

Stepping into the blast of air-conditioning, I beelined for the fridge, selected a sugary raspberry drink—desperate for one of Sully’s nourishing thick smoothies—and grabbed a stale chocolate croissant from the shelf.

I hated eating these days.

I hated how everything tasted packaged and plastic-y. I missed nuts straight off the tree and berries right off the vine.

I didn’t just miss Sully.

I missed his way of life, his ideology, his paradise.

More tears sprang to my eyes, and I angrily swiped them away as I handed over money for my pathetic dinner. The shopkeeper gave me a sympathetic smile.

I attempted to smile back, my gaze snagging on a prepaid smartphone.

New hope sprang ridiculously savage.

“I’ll buy one of those too, please.” Snatching the box, I asked, “Does it have internet?”

“Yes.” The girl nodded. “Four gigabytes for one month, included in the price.”

Shoving more money her way, I took my food and my phone and stumbled back into the muggy evening.

I needed a bench. A park. Somewhere to sit.

Ducking across a busy road, I followed the scent of salt.

The sea that’d once been my prison cell but now became the guard refusing entry back to its islands.

I’d already been down to the port this morning.

I’d walked the massive piers and padded over the litter-covered docks, catching the eyes of fishermen and exporters, attempting to ask them if they knew of Goddess Isles. I’d struggled with the local tongue, using Sully’s name as a talisman that could somehow teleport me back to him.

It’d been utterly pointless.

But at least I felt closer to Sully sitting by the ocean, even if it was polluted and brown.

Finding a spot on a stack of shipping crates, accompanied by the pungent whiff of dead fish, I ripped at the phone box while eating my dried pastry. I followed the set-up instructions and then did something I probably should’ve done days ago.

The guy at the hangar had said no one could find Sully without an invitation.

Yet Drake had found him, and I doubted Sully willingly gave out his address.

Therefore...there must be a way.

If no one will tell me...I’ll find it myself.

Loading Google Earth, I typed in Jakarta. From there, I zoomed out, I panned over the sea,  and I began the tedious search for forty-four islands all hidden far from me.

* * * * *

I rubbed my tired and stinging eyes from staring at a bright screen in the dark.

Night had fallen.

My phone’s battery had reached critical.

I’d tracked my way across the Pacific Ocean, Indian Ocean, and Java Sea. I’d squinted at land masses from some satellite that Google Earth used to spy on mankind, and suffered hope and disappointment, hope and disappointment, over and over again as one island was discounted, followed by another and another and another.

No archipelagos appeared.

No hints of coral reefs and utopian atolls.

Just endless water, blobs of fishing boats and cruise liners, and the never-ending blockade preventing me from returning to Sully.

Had he paid off Google Earth to hide his islands?

Was I blind and not looking hard enough?

Had I dreamed it all and been reduced to an insane girl sitting in the dark at a commercial port in Jakarta, reckless with her safety, stupid with her longevity, utterly obsessed with a man who’d sent her away...permanently.

God.

I dropped my phone into my lap and buried my face in my hands.

This can’t be happening.

How had my life derailed so spectacularly without my permission, and now that I wanted what I’d been given, I couldn’t damn well find it?

How can he hide a nest of islands from everyone?

How was that possible in this day and age?

Dragging my hands through my hair, I sniffed up tattered determination and grabbed my phone again. Sully had guests fly in and out. He released goddesses, for God’s sake.

There had to be some mention of him.

I’ll try Facebook.

Logging on, I went to put in Calico’s real name, Sonya Teo, but my inbox caught my eye, habit making me click on that first.

Scott Martin’s message bubble popped up from the night of my abduction. If I thought he cared about me, and that we were building a meaningful connection, I’d been a stupid idiot.

Scott Martin: El, where the hell are you? It’s late, and I’m drunk from those damn Irish and their super livers. I’m crashing on the bottom bunk tonight. When you get in, take the top. I’ll see you in the morning.

Scott Martin: What the fuck, El? Did you sleep somewhere else last night? I saw that English twat flirting with you before you went into the kitchen to cook us dinner. You better not have been with him while I was too drunk to notice.

Scott Martin: This is getting rude. I’ve had to check out of the backpackers as we’re catching the flight tonight for the bachelor party. I have your stuff...you coming or what?

Scott Martin: I’m at the airport. I’ve left your bag at reception of the backpackers. Poor form, Eleanor. If you wanted to end it because I refused to go to Asia with you, the least you could’ve done is tell it to my face.

Scott Martin: Look, I’m sorry. You okay? I’m getting a little worried. Just message me instead of giving me the cold shoulder. You’re still welcome to come to the party. Message me when you get these, and we’ll work something out. Let me know you’re alright at least.

Scott Martin: Okay, I know this is a dick move, but...your profile is still showing active, so I know you’re okay. Look, this isn’t working. I have no interest in going to Asia. Ever. I’ve enjoyed getting to know you, Eleanor, but...feel free to chase your own destination from this point on. See ya.

Wow.

How could I ever have felt guilty when I’d fought my attraction for Sully out of loyalty to that asshole? How could I ever, ever compare what I felt for Sully to the minuscule blip that Scott had been?

I wanted to feel something.

Rage. Injustice. Pissed off.

But all I felt was...nothing.

He was nothing.

His lack of concern while I’d been kidnapped and sold only added more panic to my desire to return to Sully.

Sully would never treat me that way. He would never forget about me so heartlessly.

He sent you away, remember?

Only to keep me safe!

My heart rabbited.

He’d sent me away to keep me safe.

He’d given me no option to return so he knew I would continue to be safe.

But what about him!?

He’d held me and kissed me, and I’d felt his love, his regret, his pain.

He’d known something bad would happen.

He’d protected me by giving me up.

He’d sacrificed us because he loved me.

God, I can’t do this anymore!!!

Regardless of safety or sanity. Despite the impossible task.

I need to go back.

He would’ve come for me by now. He would’ve appeared at the end of the street or pulled me into an alley if he’d won against his brother—because if he felt a tenth of the pain caused by our separation that I did...nothing would’ve kept him from chasing after me.

That wasn’t ego.

That was inevitability.

The only reason he hadn’t was...he’s hurt.

Sully!

Launching from my chair of crates, I opened a tracking app and installed it on my phone. While I sped down the dock, I called my father.

It went straight to voicemail.

It didn’t matter.

I only wanted to update my insurance policy.

The answer machine beeped, and I rushed, “Dad, the man I mentioned, Sullivan Sinclair? He’s in trouble. I’m travelling to a set of islands that isn’t on any map. There’s no airport code or address. All I can give you is this phone number and a tracker app that I’ve installed. Trace the call, Dad. Give my location to the police. I don’t know how I’m going to find my way there, but I will. I have no choice—”

I slammed to a stop as a pallet loader drove past, cutting off my race down the dock.

I went to travel around him.

I opened my mouth to give more details to my father.

But then, I froze.

Fate.

Glorious, mercurial fate.

It’d just given me a way back to Sully.

A blatant clue that’d driven directly into my path.

The boxes stacked high on the pallet loader held a distinguished, solemn SSG.

Sully’s logo.

Sinclair and Sinclair Group.

And the boat they were being loaded onto?

My chariot back to him.